


History at the Wrong Time

by dcisamtyler



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: American History, Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcisamtyler/pseuds/dcisamtyler
Summary: Inspired by the dialogue prompt: "I’m going to die! I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!"
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Reader, Tenth Doctor/You, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	History at the Wrong Time

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to anybody who actually knows anything about history. This is pretty much completely made-up and I don't know anything about the Boston Massacre (despite being from Boston). Enjoy anyways!

All you wanted was to visit California in the summer. You didn’t want to go visit other worlds or dance on the edge of Saturn’s rings. You simply wanted to make your way up the California coast until you hit Oregon and then it would be the Doctor’s choice for a trip.

You didn’t think it was too much to ask. After all, it isn’t a hard place to find. You simply look at a map of the United States and go all the way to the left until you hit the Pacific Ocean. Or at least – you thought so.

You had heard nothing but nice things about it – how it has a strip of sunny beaches down the coast, a beautiful mountain range in the north, a fun slew of theme parks. Not to mention, iconic cities like Los Angeles, Anaheim, and San Francisco. You were pretty much set on the idea, and when you told him, the Doctor completely agreed.

“What a brilliant idea, Y/N!” he had shouted, and then he was off. His white Converse scuffed on the TARDIS floor as he began to run around the console, hitting buttons and pulling levers. His brown eyes were beautiful and wild, ready for your next adventure together. He mused out loud about how he could finally wear his cool sunglasses again. Not the ones you thought, but the other cool ones (you still didn’t know). You knew he never got to wear them during your other trips (you really hadn’t noticed).

You watched in amazement, laughter escaping your lips as he was entirely lost in his own world. He got that way sometimes when you prepared for trips. But normally, it was okay. You made sure he glanced at the screen every so often. You were certain that you were on your way to modern-day San Francisco.

So you had to wonder why you were now crouching in the snow behind a bunch of crates in the middle of Boston in 1770.

The trip started fine, at first.

When you landed, you and the Doctor stumbled out of the TARDIS, completely prepared for the trip of a lifetime. The cold stung at your bare arms but you shook it off. San Francisco could be cold, right? All that air coming off the water? 

The Doctor didn’t seem to think much of it. He plucked his sunglasses out of a pocket in his long coat, chatting away about how wonderful San Francisco was going to be when he stopped and glanced around, realizing you weren’t exactly in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. He pursed his lips. “That’s strange. This doesn’t look like San Francisco, but then again, haven’t stopped by in a while. My memory could just be foggy,” he said, his mouth twitching into a grin. However, it faded quickly when you didn’t reply. He looked down at you. “Foggy? San Francisco’s known for its fog? No? …Sorry.”

There weren’t any more jokes as he took your hand and led you down the pathway. The only joke you wanted to hear was that you were on a film set and this was San Francisco because it didn’t seem like that’s where you landed.

You hadn’t seen much of it, but you were pretty sure it looked more modern than brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Not to mention, you thought you saw a horse-drawn carriage in the distance. And there was a light layer of snow on the ground. None of the guidebooks you read in the TARDIS library mentioned there would be snow in San Francisco.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. He sniffed at the air a bit. “This isn’t 2020, Y/N.”

You glanced over at him. “Really? What convinced you? Was it the horse and buggy or the man walking around looking like Napoleon?”

In one breath, he pulled you to the side behind a bunch of crates as you both heard shouting. You couldn’t tell the direction, but you swallowed. It didn’t sound good.

In fact, it sounded like an argument. A brawl.

The Doctor looked up at the nearest street sign (or what looked like a street sign). “King Street? King Street. Why do I know that name? King Street?” Suddenly, a light bulb appeared over his head and he turned white as a sheet. “No, no, no, no, no –“

The Doctor closed his eyes, running an anxious palm over his face. “Oh, Y/N, this isn’t San Francisco in 2020, this is Boston in 1770.”

You were hesitant to ask. “What happened in Boston in 1770?”

“The Boston Massacre.”

Now, you were stuck crouching in the snow in the middle of American Revolution-era Boston, peeking out from behind large crates of (tea? food?) as you watched men in colonial uniforms stand by your hiding spot, completely unaware that you were there. Their voices were high-pitched and stilted and they were complaining about taxes and the British. They lingered for too long, and despite the cold air, all you could smell was a nauseating mix of body odor, sweat, and gunpowder. You cringed, holding a hand in front of your mouth. The Doctor was an idiot.

You waited a few moments until you could hear their footsteps move away. Then you began taking in gulps of air as if you weren’t ever going to know the luxury of breathing again. Frankly, you weren’t sure – the Doctor insisted you couldn’t move. If you got involved by running into the wrong people, it could put a hole in the rift of time, or well…a bullet in your chest. This was the Boston Massacre, after all.

You looked across at the Doctor now. He was sitting with his legs tucked in, and he was fiddling with his sonic screwdriver. He was staring out into nothing, mumbling to himself about how he pressed a lever just an inch too far and somehow, ended up on the wrong side of the United States. You wanted to remind him that he somehow ended up in the wrong century, too, but you figured it was probably the wrong time to do so, especially when you could lose your life at any second.

So, you simply glared at him. As he felt your gaze on him, his eyebrows lifted in offense. “Who? Me?” he mouthed, sticking out his neck with a finger pointed at his chest.

“Yes, you,” you hissed, holding a hand to your chest to calm your heartbeat. "I thought you said you couldn’t get yourself stuck in a fixed-point in time.”

“I can’t!” The Doctor replied, his voice caught between a whisper and a growl.

“Then how do you explain this?” You swept a hand around at where you were hiding. If you peeked out, you could see a group of men yelling at each other, their chanting echoing over to where you were crouched, your outfit uncomfortably digging into your chest and back. The cold snow didn’t help much either. “I’d say the Boston Massacre is a fixed-point in time.”

You waited for the Doctor to snap back at you with an equally sarcastic comment, but instead, he ran a hand over his tousled hair, ruffling it up as he looked at you with sad eyes. He gave a little sniff. “Yeah…”

“Are we going to do anything about this?”

“We are,” he whispered, sweeping a hand out like you had a moment before. “We’re waiting it out.”

You looked away from him, closing your eyes. You couldn’t believe it. Your intelligent Time Lord believed you could simply wait out the Boston Massacre. What were you going to do? Tiptoe your way back to the TARDIS over a bunch of dead bodies while making sure a bunch of almost-Americans didn’t spot you? 

You kept your breathing steady as you attempted to steal a glance at the current scene. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched someone cocking a musket. You were going to die here. You were going to die at the hands of a crazy Bostonian soldier when all you wanted was to visit California.

You stared ahead at the Doctor. “I’m going to die here! I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

The Doctor glanced over at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “Hey!”

“You’re the one that got us into this –“

There was a pop and the men scattered. The Doctor put up a finger to his mouth to shush you, motioning for you to crouch down further. You weren’t sure if it was a gunshot, but you swallowed hard. This was it. This was how the Boston Massacre started. Wasn’t that it – the gunshot heard around the world? You waited, pressing your entire body against the crate, wishing you had paid attention more to US History.

But there was nothing else. You looked at the Doctor with a raised eyebrow. You were afraid to look. You nodded at him aggressively. “Go look,” you mouthed.

The Doctor breathed in, bracing himself. Slowly, he glanced up over the nearest crate, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, sonic at the ready…

Then he did something you didn’t expect. He smiled.

“Doctor…what is it?”

He motioned for you to stand up. As you dusted the snow off of your pants and looked out at the scene, you swore you were going to kill him. The entire street was empty. There were no dead bodies, no more men arguing. Your mouth opened and closed as you glanced over at the Doctor in confusion.

He simply shrugged. “It’s 5:10.”

“Yeah? So what?”

“I don’t know how I didn’t think of it.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled at you. The Boston Massacre didn’t happen until 7:45.”

You rolled your eyes. The Doctor was an idiot.


End file.
